


Beauty In His Eyes

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Amorality, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Background Relationships, Bathing/Washing, Christmas, Companionable Snark, Consent is Sexy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Darkness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Has Issues, Eyeliner, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Good Peter Hale, Gratuitous Pet Names, Happy Ending, Heartfelt Conversations, Honesty, Hugs, Hurt Stiles, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, Nogitsune, Pack, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Protective Peter Hale, Protectiveness, Redemption, Riddles, Road Trips, Scenting, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Unreliable Narrator, alternate take on the, and he gets one, because the author can't juggle chars to save their life, but they're working on it, but we love him anyway, except malia and cora, peter can sometimes be an, peter is a violent bastard, quotes, sorta - Freeform, who don't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 03:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17093393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: "Take me away," Stiles breathes when Peter opens his door.He's soaked through, heavy rain drumming against the stiff line of his shoulders, mud cached up his pants, his arms, teeth-clacking, bone-clinking shivers wracking harshly through him. He feels cracked open, desperate, hollow, and there's a tight, blistering ache in the back of his throat begging him to cry, to spill out all his secrets, his terror, hismisery."Alpha," he murmurs, crumbling, nearly whisked away by the harsh winds, and Peter's eyes go molten, from ice to lava in a split second, the liquid magma in those irises so entrancing that Stiles, roughly, helplessly, raggedly, repeats what can only be a benediction,"Alpha."Peter growls, rough and low, and drags him inside, shutting the door behind him a little gentler than he'd expect, but then, Peter isalwaysdoing things gentler than he'd expect.He fuckingdrownedhim gentler than he would've expected, and isn'tthatjust... his life in a nutshell.[Or: Peter is protective and violent, Stiles is fucked up but surviving, and they elope to canada to see the northern lights.]





	1. Redemption & Pain (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michicant123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michicant123/gifts).



> ❄ Gifter: [whispering-sumire755](https://whispering-sumire755.tumblr.com/)  
> ❄ Giftee: [michicant123](https://michicant123.tumblr.com/)  
> ❄ A/N: Okayyyyyyy, so. This is one of my favorite ships, and it's been a minute since I've had a chance to write them, and there's a chance that this fic ran away from me... just a smidge, but I hope it's a good gift, and may you have a very, very merry christmas!!!!
> 
> [Trigger Warnings :: Gerard did the torture thing, which is only ever referenced, and, uh, Stiles' dad is an _abusive motherfucker_ in this fic, which is also only ever referenced, but the references are more vivid than they are vague (mostly in later chapters), so, _please_ be careful if that will be a problem for you;; minor characters and _super_ minor characters die... a lot, lol, also, also, lotsa amorality]]

The first time he ever notices it, it's so faint, dimmed relentlessly by the chaos of the moment, and the tangential duty that they're facing, that Peter almost, _almost_ dismisses it—the cloying scent of copper mingled with chemicals.

Except, the way Derek's puppies, the blonde she-wolf and her stoic shadow, look at Stiles like he is at once horrifying and brilliant, like he is starlight, but they don't _understand_ , gives him pause. That clever boy brought the runaways and the banshee (the queen, the most necessary piece) in a blaze of glory and despicable vehicular treatment, and all throughout the vestiges of this harrowing affair- in the face of a kanima and their shaken Alpha and their peer's death and subsequent rebirth- their focus has remained on Stiles, solely, near fanatic.

He hands them over to Derek, easily, when all is said and done, wrangles a humbled, traumatized Jackson and Lydia over to the Alpha, and tells them all, "You're Pack, you're family, and you _will_ take care of each other. No more tyranny, no more anger and useless violence-" Derek flinches- "no more running away, no more unilateral decisions. This is scary, I know, I'm sorry, but the only way you're going to survive is if you stick together, if you get _better_ at this, so just. Fucking _try_. I'm tired of seeing the people I care about in danger, dying."

Isaac raises an eyebrow, but he is the only one, Peter notices, who's skeptical. Inflectionless, he says, "You want us to believe you care about us."

Stiles sighs, deeply, and that scent, warm, iron, a sickly, wounded sort of thing, blossoms in full. Derek's eyebrows furrow, though no one else seems to react. "No, Isaac, I don't expect you to believe a goddamned thing."

Gingersnap eyes look through all of them, flay their souls from their skein, shredding viscera, splintering bone, bearing the raw core of them. He urges, "Be a Pack," it seems to morph into a prayer somewhere along the line, _"survive."_

Erica and Boyd look a hairsbreadth away from going after him, whines caught in their throats, when he turns away from them all, climbs back into his sputtering, complaining jeep to drive off, Scott already gone with the Argents, Gerard just _gone_. The two pups huddle into their Alpha, then, seeking comfort in an animal, innately accepting way.

Derek looks discomfited, but thoughtful, wary, a tsunami forever raging in his eyes, but _inspired_.

Peter has a feeling his nephew's going to take the boy's words to heart.

The boy who smelled like pain and had scraping bruises plainly painted across his cheek, chin, a blackening eye, a split lip.

Peter wonders, but doesn't find the time to pry, his nephew's Pack has, now, regained lost members and magically acquired two more, one of which resents him spectacularly and with, he'll admit, good reason. He's too weak from the spell to be capable of surviving without an Alpha, and he doesn't want to leave his last living family member, besides.

Seems he's got his work cut out for him.

* * *

"I still can't believe you're alive," Stiles says, mildly accusatory. He's wearing sunglasses indoors, but Peter highly doubts it's for the aesthetic; the boy smells strongly of makeup and a flowery kind of perfume, and Peter wonders how many of the other wolves can smell the sweet-thick bloody aftertaste that lingers in the undercurrent of his unnatural scent.

"Everything about this life is improbable, darling, you might as well get used to believing a great many unbelievable things sooner rather than later." Peter's voice is, recklessly, softer than he means it to be, but his wolf is drowning all his sense in _injured packmate,_ and something in him churns, _protect_ , so his silver tongue remains, infuriatingly, blunted.

"Okay," Stiles agrees easily, flippantly. "Thank you for the advice, but if you expect me to just _believe_ your whole 'I'm sane, redemption' schtick, you've got another thing coming. I'm sorry I burned you, I never should've subjected you to that again, it was horrible of me, and I'll regret it for the rest of my life, but I don't regret that you died, and if you hurt this Pack, if you even come close to Scott and his mom, my dad, I'll kill you again, no hesitation."

"My," Peter purrs, close to dazed, close to awed, "how very daring, to apologize and threaten in the same breath. What makes you think it'll stick?"

Stiles looks at him, eyes hidden in pitch by those sunglasses, and Peter very suddenly wants to rip them off his face and break them as violently as possible.

"I know what spell you used, Peter," the boy tells him, two shades too close to sweet, and so incredibly soft, "I know why Lydia was so important, why you had to hurt her like you did in order to get back, why she was the only one who could get through to Jax. If you hurt the people I care about again, I _will_ kill you."

"You don't want to, though," Peter realizes, vaguely breathless, cocking his head, reassessing, analyzing, "do you?"

"No," Stiles murmurs. "Be good, so I won't have to."

* * *

Scott is in the loft.

As is Allison.

Derek's struggling, but Stiles- who has been vigilantly playing both sides of the court all summer alongside, surprisingly, Isaac- arranged this meeting, and he's a hard person to deny, dangerously persuasive, terribly tenacious, and entirely unwavering.

Stiles is the loyal strategist to Scott's earnest, if immature, chivalry.

He's also managed, somehow, with the help of Erica and Boyd- who are beyond loyal to him, for reasons that remain maddeningly hidden- to verbally beat some sense into his nephew by way of telling him, brutally honest and empathetic at once, that, yes, he is grieving, and yes, he is traumatized, but he's responsible for this Pack, these _children_ , now, and it will be nothing less than _hard_ , but he can't go on how he has been. Peter thinks a please was thrown in there at some point, though he can't say by who.

And, now, Stiles is stepping back, letting Scott and Derek work out their issues after the months of prep-work he laid down, Derek uncomfortable, a little caustic, defensive, but listening, Scott explaining that it wasn't _just_ that Derek wasn't his Alpha, there were so many reasons he'd felt he couldn't trust Derek, there was too much at stake, Gerard had been threatening his _mom_ , Isaac, Stiles, and Scott was just trying his best to keep people _safe_.

There is a tumultuous kind of confession, there, underneath everything; that Scott's still a child, and his heroic instincts, in this situation, could keep no one truly safe from the monster that was- _is_ \- Gerard. That he hadn't kept _Derek_ safe. That he felt as protective as he did scared.

And Derek, in turn, after his eyes widen and his breath catches at the disturbing image Scott paints of being accosted with a knife outside of the hospital, at being _stabbed_ , and then having to pretend everything was alright as he drove his mother home, confesses his own read-between-the-lines truths, much more gruffly, quietly, jaggedly.

In the end, it comes down to the same thing, neither of them knew what they were doing, neither of them trusted or had the foresight to be completely open and honest with the other, both of them were just a pinch arrogant about how well their plans would work, about how to enact them.

Allison is, surprisingly, simpler, she has a heartfelt apology on her tongue for the pups, and a story similar to Scott's about why she'd acted the way she did.

"Well, Gerard just manipulated all of you _expertly_ didn't he?" Peter feels the need to half tease from his perch on the spiral staircase.

"Are you jealous?" Stiles wonders, having steadily made his way closer during the Pack's pow-wow, leaning his back against the window, eyes like a cauldron of melting caramel, "That he was a better creepy supervillain than you?"

"Why, _no_ , my dear, if I had been any better at being evil, I never would've gotten a second chance."

Stiles just hums, returns his regard to the wolves for awhile, as Derek points out to a still slightly embittered huntress that _he_ didn't kill her mother, her _Code_ did. Scott flinches at the same time Allison does, but grimaces and looks away, because they all know how true that is.

"I'm proud of you," Stiles tells him quietly, as the discussion continues on in the background, and Peter has to do a double-take, because, of all the things he might've expected Stiles to say, that was never one of them.

"Are you?"

"You told Lydia you were sorry, and _then_ you told her what she was, how you'd been able to take advantage of her, gave her books, things she could research, _learn_. Maybe you had an ulterior motive, and maybe I'll regret feeling like this later, but I'm proud of you." Stiles' eyes skate back to Peter's and _hold_ , his smile light, his words soft, sweet like marshmallows steeped in the blackest teas might be.

He won't deny having ulterior motives, because he _does_ have them, but, "I know what it's like to question the sanctity of your mind, when your mind is your greatest asset."

"Do you regret it?" his voice stays a fragment too light, too soft for the subject matter, but his eyes are intense, solemn, _breathtaking_. "Doing that to her?"

"I wanted to live," Peter tells him honestly, and Stiles offers a lop-sided smile, eyes melting into something downright affectionate.

"I'm still proud of you."

His heart stays steady, nothing less than the truth, it's... _odd_.

But what may be odder, still, is the scent clinging to him as he paces back to his friends to gleefully tease Scott and snark at Derek even as he claps them both on the shoulders, smacks a kiss on Allison's cheek and ruffles her hair with that same seal of approval, bittersweet, aching pride in them for doing something good and necessary, for all it took them to get there. The visible bruises and watercolor rose-bud bloom scrapes are gone, the black eye all fading, sickly dandelion petals, but Stiles still smells like cheap perfume and sticky iron and _pain_.

* * *

Summer ends and three things happen in quick succession, wild animals start acting _strange_ , the Alpha Pack makes an appearance, and Pack meetings at the loft become a weekly routine, to plan, touch base, and _touch_.

Scott and Isaac struggle the most with that last bit, but Erica, Boyd, and, surprisingly, Stiles, take to it like ducks to water, where Allison just doesn't seem to mind one way or another, Lydia adamantly dissuades anyone but Jackson from touching her at all, and Jackson clings to her when she's in the room, to the puppies when she isn't, and to whoever else is available when they aren't, without even seeming to notice half the time. It's a necessity, for wolves, to touch and scent and find comfort in _nearness_. However uncomfortable it may make the few, their instincts inevitably overwhelm whatever societal inhibitions have been impressed upon them, and soon everyone's cuddling with each other on the cramped couch Stiles and Scott scored from craigslist like it's the most normal thing in the universe.

"I don't like how quickly the twins showed their hand," Stiles sighs, sprawled out on Erica, Boyd, and Scott's laps, eyes peacefully closed as Jackson absently runs his fingers through ever-growing bittersweet chocolate hair from his place next to Scott, Lydia perched on the couch's arm-rest with her feet in her boyfriend's lap, daintily cradling a cup of coffee in her hands.

"Neither do I," she chirps, "but it's not as if we can do anything about it." He cracks an eye open and raises an eyebrow at her.

"We can't kill them, Stiles," Scott huffs, eyes trained on a book that Peter's going to assume is required reading of some sort.

Stiles groans mournfully.

"They're on the board, now," Peter hums, "we only have to wait for them to make the first move."

"That's what I don't like. We're completely in the dark, we have no control, we know who they are, we know they're watching us, but we don't even fucking know _why,"_ Stiles complains.

"Whatever they want, it can't be good," Boyd murmurs, half into Erica's hair, and Erica shivers a little. Stiles shifts to take her hand, laces it with his to the tune of her mildly reassured, entirely fond smile.

Allison chimes in, decisive and three shades shy of an order, "We should be prepared."

Her gaze is dark, meaningful, focused intently on Derek, who grunts.

"We'll train-" Stiles makes a noise, almost a warning, and Derek bites back a smile- "as _equals_ , and in the Preserve, so we have space to move around. I promise not to be as..."

"Sourwolf-y?" Stiles fills in, the word lilting up, all good-natured question. Derek rolls his eyes, but lets it stand.

"—about it."

"I'm inviting my dad," Allison tells him, chin jutted out, both challenging and baring her throat. She knows enough about werewolf culture, by now, to know _exactly_ what she's doing.

Peter's got to give her props for that, especially considering it works, for all that it takes Derek fifteen minutes exuding tension and willful silence before he gives in with a hissing exhale and a begrudging nod, it does work.

Stiles, Peter notes, like it's a background thing instead of something that makes his throat inexplicably tighten, does not smell like pain and blood today.

He does, the next day, tenses whenever anyone comes up behind him, suppresses a flinch whenever anyone touches him, but remains overseeing the training, helping Scott and Allison keep the peace as they bring Chris into the fold; he continues smelling that way, the strength of his perfume versus the undercurrent of blood-soaked agony fluctuating, for the next two weeks, even as he and Lydia help write a new Hale-Argent treaty, even as Allison and Chris begin training _him_ alongside the wolves.

It's... disconcerting.

* * *

When Peter enters his apartment and finds Stiles sitting on his couch, hugging his knees to his chest, no less than five books opened on the coffee table, he can only wonder, "Why am I even surprised?"

"Mmm, because we're not friends? of all the people I could hang out with, all the places I could go, why did I come here?"

"I'm assuming for the literature rather than the company," Peter returns blithely, and Stiles snorts as he deftly flips a page.

Peter, huffingly, plops himself down beside Stiles, scanning over two polish texts on Casters and magical creatures, over four others in english, middle english, and archaic latin on werewolves, Pack dynamics, gypsies, and banshees, and a small journal-style compilation of old, spanish poetry.

"I thought _Lydia_ was the resident expert in archaic latin?"

"I don't like leaving shit to chance. I love Lydia, but what happens if she's not there, or she's-" he flaps a hand around, reaching for the right words- "incapacitated, or, or, held up or something?"

 _"I_ know archaic latin," Peter tells him, raising an eyebrow, lacing a faux-indignant cadence into his tone.

Stiles bites back a snickering smile, looks at him sideways, "I don't trust you, yet."

Peter blinks, slowly, then, soft, "Yet?"

"Yet," the boy agrees quietly, lifting a hand to... poke Peter's nose.

It's oddly childish and oddly endearing and Peter's entirely at a loss at what to do about it.

At least, Peter thinks, strangely drawn in by the way Stiles is looking at him, cheek leaning on his knees, a tender-soft, fond-sweet giggle-smile curling at his lips, sparkling in his eyes like starlight fossilized in amber—at least he doesn't smell like pain and perfume today. Instead, his scent is all ice-chilled vanilla, blood-ripe strawberries, and thick-rich cream with an undercurrent of jasmine and lily, all soured, wilting at the edges with something inexplicably like _lonely_.

Peter asks, finally, unable to keep hold of his concerns any longer, "Are you alright, Stiles?"

"Fine," Stiles tells him immediately, "I'm fine." But the smile has faded, and his eyes have gone glassy, slid from Peter to the middle-distance, the words lilted, withered, washed-out, "I'm _always_ fine."

He doesn't sound it, half the time he doesn't smell it, and for all that he still _looks_ it most days... his heartbeat tripped over the lie. Stiles blinks his attention back to Peter, smile all sugar-glazed tragedy, like he knows it did, but he lied anyway.

"Alright," Peter murmurs, carefully runs his fingers through silk-soft oaken curls, quirks his lips up when Stiles seems to melt under his touch, leaning into it with a misty kind of sigh. "Alright, sweetheart, alright."

* * *

Peter doesn't apologize to Derek or Scott.

He regrets some things, and others he adamantly doesn't. He wanted, viciously, his vengeance, his Pack's vengeance, he wanted the blood of everyone involved to soak his maw, to give truth to the hemorrhage in his irises, he wanted to cease the flickering flame in his peripheral, the crackling, cackling screams of people he loved and resented in equal measure _burning_. He wanted, for a moment, to feel less like char and ash and slick-melt meat, his blood less magma and more... _settled_.

Grief, rage, _pain_ , can make you do things you would've once thought yourself incapable, and maybe, _maybe_ it would've been different if he hadn't been _left alone_.

He understands why she did it, but he cannot forgive her, and his love for her is so tortured, _volatile_ , now. He killed her because he wanted to, as much because he _needed_ to, and he healed himself, began hunting the people who hurt his family himself. He doesn't feel justified, or right, exactly, but he feels something close.

His wolf was still feral, twisted, a teeth bared, claws sharp sort of thing when he Bit Scott. He could've done better with him, his wolf's possessiveness, and his own _rush_ led to... mistakes, but the initial act? He'd needed a Beta, hell, he'd needed three in order to stabilize. Scott was his Beta, but Peter hadn't been the best Alpha, and he is, at least, thankful that the boy refused to heel.

Especially considering where the only person other than Derek who he considers Pack might be if Scott _hadn't_.

Peter does thank him for that, eventually, because eating crow and making amends is the only way he's ever going to earn his place in this Pack, as much as it galls him. It's better, in some ways, than it was in his sister's Pack—all he needs here, is a few well-placed words, and dedication to the principals he had _before_ the fire, rather than those he gained _after_. There, he'd been the Left Hand, the assassin, politician, the only blue-eyes, the one to blame when things went wrong, the one to get his hands dirty to keep them all safe, it was impossible to take that position without ending up on the fringes, without being smiled at warily, trepidatiously, because what kind of soul must you have in order to be named the Left Hand's heir at the age of nine? what kind of person can you be, to cut off your empathy enough to become so _ruthless?_

He remembers, vividly, how Talia had looked at him when Aunt Shy had told them all that he was hers, to train and to guide, how disgusted she'd been.

"And I shouldn't have imposed my... mind, upon you," he tacks on at the end. Not an apology, but a close as he is ever going to get. "That was. Uncouth, of me, and I do believe I was half mad at the time, which makes it all the more—"

"Rude," Stiles cuts in, as he ambles in from the kitchen, newly opened yogurt in hand. He seems _immensely_ amused. "Because that's what you call mind-raping someone, Peter, _rude."_

"Hey, hey, no," Scott hushes him, a little too delighted for Peter's tastes, "I think he's actually trying to say he's sorry."

"Well, he's shit at it," Stiles decides, climbing over the back of the couch and immediately curling into Scott's side. Something vaguely wanting stabs through Peter sharply, and he struggles with the instinct to rip Stiles away from the Beta in order to savagely cover him in his scent.

"Yeah, sure, but he's _trying,"_ Scott's eyes go a little dark, considering, and Peter knows without a doubt that Scott doesn't forgive him, is nowhere near forgiving him, but... appreciates the effort he's making, anyway. "Which is what really matters."

Stiles hums around his spoonful, but his eyes are sparkling, and Peter gets the strange feeling the boy's going to tell him he's _proud_ again, later. His heart feels oddly warm, at that.

(Derek's different.

Derek is his Alpha, for now, and his nephew. Derek is the one who killed him, who resurrected him, who's allowing him to stay. Peter staying, accepting Derek's Alphahood quietly, and never bringing up Kate or Laura in his presence is the best he can do.

He hopes Derek realizes that if Peter blamed him at all for the fire, he would be dead.

He doesn't think he does.)

* * *

As the Alpha Pack's plans escalate, the twins trying to lure Danny and Lydia in with sex-appeal- which only leads to _their_ Pack growing in numbers when they bring Danny in on everything- and there having been numerous threats, at least four kidnapping attempts, and now people going missing and turning up dead, Stiles begins splitting his time, more often than not, between the loft and Peter's apartment. He gnaws through Peter's vast library like he's starved for it, cooks them dinner almost thoughtlessly, strategizes, snarks, debates certain things, forgives others.

Once, he asks, solemn and so soft Peter almost doesn't hear it, why Peter offered him the Bite.

Peter tells him, "Because you're clever and ruthless and loyal, and because you would make a beautiful wolf, a wonderful packmate."

Later, the boy wonders, "Are we Pack?"

Considering the fact that he'd been in Peter's den, making brownies in his oven, with Peter's fingers still absently twirling around a tendril of his hair, Peter had thought that would be obvious, but it'd been a day when Stiles' scent was saturated in flowery chemicals and lined with wine-rich copper, and he'd said it with a frangible kind of delicacy, twisted brittle at the edges, so Peter had just leaned into him, wrapped his arms around Stiles' front, nuzzled at his throat, and said, "Of course, darling."

Stiles had gone very, very still for a breathless moment, before spinning in Peter's arms and clinging to him with an almost imperceptible shudder. "Good," he'd whispered, and Peter had wondered why he'd even needed to ask, why he'd feared any other answer.

Their packbond glows warm within him, is brighter, even, than the bond he has with Derek, stronger, tighter, _more._

Once, Peter had asked, "Do you trust me?"

And Stiles had answered, "As far as I can throw you."

Stiles is all skin and bone these days, barely eats all the food he makes, for all that he bakes with an almost nervous energy, and Peter's sure their Pack is going to get fat soon with all the cakes and sweets, pies and breads he makes them. There are charcoal smudge bruises beneath his eyes, and the amount of time he spends in his natural scent keeps decreasing. He's gained some muscle, but he's losing too much weight, and Peter _worries_.

Derek is too caught up in his responsibilities, in the way the Argent girl tugs at his heartstrings by being stubborn and adamant, a good leader, a good _person_ , nothing at all like her aunt, but terrifying, still, for the name she holds, the blood in her veins, the wolfsbane staining her skin. Scott's becoming infatuated with the Lahey pup, and while he seems to lose most of his wits when he's love-lorn, is just as occupied as everyone else by the Alphas circling them. Lydia is focused on her burgeoning powers, as she begins finding murdered corpses unwittingly and without a hope in hell of saving anyone as of yet, Danny and Jackson on fielding the twins, and the lot of them on training.

Erica and Boyd are the only ones who share grim looks, whose gazes and touch become solicitous, who notice and wring their hands just as uselessly as he.

"... I suppose that means I should work harder," Peter had said, and began to plan, because having Stiles' trust would be meaningless if Stiles' secrets ended in his _death._

* * *

Derek is skeptical when Stiles points out three of the murder victims being virgins, even if the fourth hadn't been, and when he points out the _way_ they were killed.

"Why is it so hard to believe- in _this_ town, where there are werewolves and druids and banshees- that some evil witchy bitch could be sacrificing people for their own gain? I mean, the witchy bitch might even be on the Alphas payroll, for all we know!"

"There isn't any evidence," Allison puts in, and when Stiles glares at her, she amends with a wince, "or at least not enough."

"And the fourth victim _wasn't_ a virgin," Lydia reminds primly, raising an eyebrow when Stiles turns his glare on her.

"If it is a... _'witchy bitch',"_ Boyd begins, Erica snorting at how put out he sounds about the word choice, "how would we find them? what would we do about them?"

"Well... I'm a Spark?" Stiles shrugs, "There are tracking spells I could try? I was going to suggest that with the Alphas, except you guys have that whole-" he twirls his hand around vaguely- "meet up with them on neutral ground and duke it out bro-to-bro plan that Lydia, Danny, Peter, and I _all_ have told you is incredibly stupid, but why listen to the some of the smartest humans in your Pack and the former, _reformed_ , psychopathic Alpha? why listen to us when you could go in half-cocked and get yourself killed?"

"We aren't going to get ourselves killed, Stiles," Scott's tone is three shades shy of patronizing, and Peter idly contemplates gutting him for the sake of it. "Besides, they're in Allison's apartment complex, we have to do _something."_

Stiles nods vehemently, "Yeah, something _smarter!"_

"Do you have a better plan, Stiles?" Peter purrs, curious, and Stiles swats him, overly familiar and more than a little fond. Allison and Derek's eyes narrow in a synchronized movement, where Lydia and Erica's eyebrows raise.

"I have a _remedy_ for the _shitty_ plan."

"Really? I'm sure we're all ears, sweetheart."

Stiles' brow furrows, indecision and insecurity warring in his eyes as he looks around, finds that everyone's looking at him now, expectant, prepared to listen. His eyelashes flutter a little, a small, half stunned, "Oh," escaping him.

 _"Stiles,"_ Derek snaps, all impatient cave-man, and Peter snipes something about manners that's maybe a little harsher than he means because Stiles _flinches_.

He's probably the only one who noticed, since the boy is sitting in front of him on the spiral staircase, back pressed obstinately against Peter's legs. If it were anyone else, Peter wouldn't have allowed it, and he's sure no one else would've dared try, anyway, but, as it is, Peter's the only one to see, feel, the involuntary movement, to notice the jump in a rapid-fire heart.

Something protective and furious churns within him, simmers to boiling as Stiles plays off his odd reaction with an incessant stream of babble, easily covering Peter's acerbic behavior in turn, and weaving a near fool-proof plan around their previously weak idea.

* * *

Things clash quickly and violently, and the plan gets hijacked by a darach, who'd apparently been hiding under their noses for the better part of three months as the Alphas distracted them.

Derek, Erica, Danny, Boyd, Jackson, and Lydia end up dealing with the Alphas, which wasn't as much manpower as they'd _expected_ to have, but with the gallons of mountain ash, the bottles of self-igniting Molotov cocktails, and the power of an Alpha, a banshee, a kanima hybrid, a latent shaman, and three wolves at their disposal, Peter can only wish them well, or, at least, better than he's doing here with three idiotic teenagers planning to ritualistically sacrifice themselves to the Nemeton in order to save their parents.

"There _has_ to be another way," he's seething at Deaton, only for Stiles to shout, nearly animalistic, halfway to pulling out his hair, eyes dangerously wet, and for a distinct, shivery moment, Peter can't even think beyond the strong thrum of _protect_ and _hold_ and _nurture_.

"There _isn't,"_ Stiles bites, water-logged and distressed. "I've read nearly every book you own, and _stolen_ all of _his-"_ he gestures wildly to Deaton, who doesn't look remotely surprised or unhappy about the fact- "if there _was_ another way, I would've suggested it, I wouldn't even be contemplating this, but there isn't, and we're running out of fucking time, and, _fuck_ , for all we know everybody else could be dead or dying right now at the hands of a deranged Alpha Pack, and I just—can we—I need- I need—"

Peter inhales sharply when Stiles crumples, when perfume and pain is drowned out by oceans riding the tide of a ship-wrecking storm, and, gently, so gently (even though gentleness isn't something that's _ever_ come naturally to him unless he's _lying_ , and, even then. But this isn't a lie. This is probably the most honest he's been in a decade), he wraps his arms around the trembling boy, who muffles choked sobs into Peter's shoulder, who comes to him easily, and curls his arms up Peter's back, fingernails digging into shoulder blades, holding onto him like he's a lifeline, a haven, a _mercy_.

It is, perhaps, one of the strangest, most solemnly humbling things he's ever experienced.

The fact that Scott stands back and lets him provide this comfort with a melancholy sort of smiling acceptance is... something. He doesn't know what, exactly, but something.

Deaton explains that they'll need people to anchor them to this world, and no one at all contests his suggestion that Peter be Stiles'. Isaac, for Scott, considering the way their relationship has been going lately, and Deaton, since he's neutral, a druid, and, if nothing else, a _friendly_ (also, quite literally the only other person they have on hand), for Allison.

Stiles scrubs his face roughly and prepares as much as he can for the ice bath, Peter remains within five inches of him at all times. Is he hovering? possibly. Considering the fact that one of the only people he truly cares about living or dying is about to do something indescribably dangerous directly in front of him, he feels he has every right.

Stiles looks up at him, when the three are sat in their metallic tubs, their anchor's hands poised on their shoulders. His eyes are wide and overbright, brittle like fallen autumn leaves, rain-drenched, but terrifically brave, and determined, damn him.

"I trust you," Stiles whispers, and breathing becomes a serious struggle for a good thirty seconds.

 _"Thank you,_ sweetheart," Peter rasps, swallows. "If you die, now, after all the work I put into cultivating that, I'm going to _kill_ you."

Stiles giggles, wet and sticking in his throat, but _gorgeous_ , a tiny burst of glittering starlight, spilled out across the dim room. Scott and Allison trade terrible, raw-ache smiles with him, before he returns his attention to Peter, soft and innocent and _sweet_.

He says, "I make no promises."

And Peter ignores the way all of him fights against this, the way his throat is tight and his wolf is _screaming_ that he can't, he _can't_ lose his Pack again, he won't survive it, he'll lose whatever ounce of humanity he has left—he presses broad, too-thin shoulders down, and Stiles takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and _lets go_.

Water splashes next to him as Allison and Scott fight not to drown, but Stiles stays pliant, loose, drowning and entirely still, tranquil, almost.

It's terrifying.

Stiles' heart slows, slows, _stops_.

Peter's wolf tries to surge, demanding slaughter and wine-rich blood, everyone's head on an ashen, fire-scarred platter. His eyes flash and he growls, loud and unbidden and _feral_. Isaac, he thinks, tries to say something, and he snarls.

Isaac quiets.

Peter holds. He trembles, and his wolf bucks, hackles raised, teeth bared, _howling_ , but the thread of fools' gold silk remains true, burning brightly within him, and Peter _holds_.

* * *

It takes _hours_ , in fact, it takes nearly a day, but they come out of it relatively unscathed and knowing exactly where their parents are.

Peter hauls Stiles into an embrace the boy isn't entirely prepared for and burrows in, breathes. The water's sloughed away the chemicals that had adorned his skin, so now he smells... like strawberry cheesecake ice-cream, the delicacy of it all rotting, curdled with _agony_ , wilted jasmine, burnt lily-petals, and Peter's wolf is so close to the surface that he can't hold back the low-pitched, half furious, dry-grit growl.

"I—okay? uh, Peter?" Stiles lets himself be enfolded, presses his chilled face lightly into Peter's shoulder, returning the hug gingerly. "I'm kinda soaked, here. And still, y'know, in a hurry?"

"Of course," Peter murmurs, but takes just a moment more, to ground himself, to slide a hand up to the back of Stiles' neck and _pull_ at some of the pain, tendrils of some dull, throbbing, bruised ache sinking into him through protruding ink-well veins. Stiles lets out a strangled sigh and _melts_.

Scott, Allison, and Isaac notice, Scott and Allison's faces scrunch up in concerned confusion, Isaac drains of color so rapidly that Peter honestly has to wonder where all that blood _went._

When he finally pulls away, Stiles seems, at first, vaguely dazed, then sharply alarmed, then—he swallows roughly, cups Peter's cheek with a shaking hand, and prays, "Will you check on them?"

Peter wants to say _no_.

It's such a strong urge, and it might've taken him by surprise before, but after nearly losing himself simply because he couldn't hear Stiles' heartbeat? it's as expected as breathing.

Pack, Anchor, keep, protect, his wolf gives a guttural, undulating howl.

Then Stiles' fingertips trace underneath his eyes, meaningful, now-beating heart skipping, a _please_ telegraphed in every line of him.

And oh, _oh._

Well, then.

"Yes," Peter agrees, husky, and Stiles smiles serenely at him.

Parting is still... difficult. But necessary.

(The Alphas fall. No one comes out uninjured, but all but the Alpha Pack come out alive.

Derek looks at him appraisingly, and then gives a slow, understanding nod, the barest hints of a devastated kind of smile twitching at his lips.

And the next time he sees Stiles, his wolven eyes bleed _red_.)


	2. Even A Broken Clock...

"Take me away," Stiles breathes when Peter opens his door.

He's soaked through, heavy rain drumming against the stiff line of his shoulders, mud cached up his pants, his arms, teeth-clacking, bone-clinking shivers wracking harshly through him. He feels cracked open, desperate, hollow, and there's a tight, blistering ache in the back of his throat begging him to cry, to spill out all his secrets, his terror, his _misery_.

"Alpha," he murmurs, crumbling, nearly whisked away by the harsh winds, and Peter's eyes go molten, from ice to lava in a split second, the liquid magma in those irises so entrancing that Stiles, roughly, helplessly, raggedly, repeats what can only be a benediction, _"Alpha."_

Peter growls, rough and low, and drags him inside, shutting the door behind him a little gentler than he'd expect, but then, Peter is _always_ doing things gentler than he'd expect.

He fucking _drowned_ him gentler than he would've expected, and isn't _that_ just... his life in a nutshell.

Peter ushers him into the bathroom, looks him directly in the eyes, and curls his fingers into the hem of Stiles' sodden, soiled shirt. His breath catches, words, thought, flee him.

He trusts this man, he knows, the trust he has for him grows every day, and it has always, always been so hard to achieve that, for him, _trust_ , but here he is. To the brink of death, to the resurrection after, to all the scars, bruises, he has to bear.

"Yes," Stiles answers the unasked question, because there's no fucking point in _hiding_ , is there? Peter already knows, he _knows_ Peter already knows, and he is so _done_.

He's done.

He raises his arms and lets his Alpha peel the shirt from his skin, doesn't protest when his shoes are tenderly, but briskly, tugged away, when his pants and underwear are stripped with them. He is exposed, vulnerable, raw, fragile butterfly wings pinned under a rusty iron nail, paper-thin and disgustingly delicate, painted with dusky oils and inks, silvery-red ridges that raise and intersect, all of him parchment with dread-filled, horrifying notes etched into every margin. Some things are _old_ , sing his mother's madness like a lullaby, give into his father's whiskey-soaked grief like an altar, but most are new.

Most shriek, bilious, restless, like a boy who runs with wolves becoming _letter_ , becoming _listen to me, **boy** , see what I can do? I can make your body swallow a knife in the middle of a crowded parking lot, I can slick my whips with your brother's blood, I can turn your first love into something so close to a monster you won't even recognize her when I'm done. Do you really want to defy **me**?_

Some laugh, hysterical, at the resurgence of drunken rage, and the rest... the rest are nestled deep, unseen, their damage as spectacular as a star's funeral, all black-hole concave, all disappearing act and ridiculous shame.

Peter reads his naked body like a book, with the same intense focus, with the same kind of honor, respect.

He feels so ugly.

He _hates_ himself for feeling that way, but it bubbles up, liquid obsidian frothing in his belly, crawling, infecting, _fermenting_.

And then Peter touches him.

He still feels ugly, but the pain begins to seep away, and that's so dizzyingly _good_ that it interrupts all of his other thought processes, drives a wedge between him and the nausea swirling in his gut as Peter, ectoplasmic ichor riding through the veins in his arms, guides him into the bathtub.

As the water rises, warm, _comforting_ , Peter slips out of his own clothes, before folding into the bathtub behind Stiles, cradling him in his arms, against his chest, between his legs.

It's a sleepy kind of intimate, Peter's body as enveloping as the water, and infinitely safer. There are no demands, expectations, no disappointment or anger. He is... _protected_ , here.

Tears tumble down his feverish cheeks on the end of a high, despondent keen. Peter croons something soft, animal, as he washes him, a smooth slide of sudsy, caressing hands, gliding over his arms, his back, chest, belly, before the soap is soothed away with delicately gathered handfuls of water. He cries harder when Peter gets to the lower parts of him, buries his face in the man's shoulder and shakes apart, but he stays pliant, loose and trusting.

Peter repeats the process, draining and refilling the tub with clear, fresh water, until Stiles' skin is flushed and tingly, oversensitive, a shiver running through him that has nothing at all to do with cold. He's hollowed out, eviscerated, head brimming with waves of foggy white-noise, a numbness overtaking him, searing him. His soul has gone from an open, infected, oozing wound, to scoured, salted, cauterized, laved at with a wolven tongue.

For the first time since Gerard had him, he feels _clean_.

It's strange and weird and wonderful, and he giggles a little, the sound of it half drowned in his weeping, manic, like mosaic glass, all shattered and glittering colorful against stark sunlight, he feels more than hears Peter rumble, deep, sonorous, and approving in his chest as the man tips his head up, the ancient patience of glaciers in his eyes, coating Stiles in their fond frost, sugar-glaze.

"Where do you want to go?" Peter asks, hushed.

Anywhere. _Anywhere_. He wants to run until his feet are mangled stumps, all crimson, ivory, blood-soaked, bone-splintered mess.

He wants home, and safe, and clean, and maybe there's a little bit of that here, but it's not _enough_.

He wants to pluck out his own eyes so that no one can ever tell him they're _beautiful, just like you're mother's_ ever again.

He wants to see something funny, delightful, cherished, _awe-inspiring_.

He wants to _leave_.

"Aurora borealis," Stiles whispers raggedly, nonsensically, as Peter's fingers deftly dig shampoo into his hair, fingernails scratching, massaging, rough and _delicious_. He sighs, a long, low, half yearning exhale that has Peter humming in response, tugging at thick locks, causing Stiles to twitch closer, moan brokenly as his eyes flutter closed, body curling into Peter's.

"Do you like that, baby?" Peter coos, his voice gone a little husky, his knuckles kneading into his scalp, and Stiles gasps, wraps an arm around the back of Peter's neck just to hold on as a coil of pure, white-hot need burns in his groin.

It's... happening too quickly for him to be able to decide whether or not he...

But can he say no? is he _allowed_ to say no? What if he says no and Peter decides to _stay?_ decides he's worthless, not enough, not Pack?

Stiles... could still go on his own, somehow. Alone.

God, he's afraid, he's so afraid.

And part of him wants it, anyway, right? He's hard and achy and panting, isn't he?

But what is this? what are they?

... If he says no... would Peter stop? would he hate him?

He isn't thinking clearly, he _knows_ he isn't thinking clearly, but he can't _stop_ , his mind keeps clicking, winding, and his heart is pittering, terrified, in his chest, and he can't, he can't, he's too confused, he doesn't, he—

"Stop."

It claws its' way out of his throat, rips his heart out, drags the mangled organ up his throat and coats his tongue in the viscera. Water sloshes and he can almost imagine the _splat_ of his heart on the cold, linoleum floor. He squeezes his eyes shut, freezes, recoils, holds his hitched breath all at once.

"Of course, Stiles," Peter murmurs, but there's a vaguely dangerous edge to it, and Stiles folds in on himself with a sharp, wounded noise. "Anything you want, anything you _don't_ want, _always_ , I promise you; darling, _baby_ , look at me, please. Please, look at me."

They're still so close, the bathtub doesn't allow for a lot of room, but Peter doesn't touch him, keeps his body away from where Stiles is hugging himself, edged back, and his eyes seem to flicker between rubies and crystals, they're shining, though, whatever color, with something like affection-fueled rage.

"I will _never_ hurt you," Peter growls, chainsaw-shredded violence sewn into his cool, barely tempered voice. "And I will _destroy_ anyone who dares to, do you understand me?"

Stiles' throat sticks, but he manages, at least, to nod, even if the movement is small, done through molasses, wavering.

"I want you," Peter tells him, and the words feel penetrating in a debilitating kind of way, they taste like _devour_ , like something dark and bittersweet, all-consuming, powerful. "As my packmate, first and foremost, as whatever you are willing to give me, but I'll take _nothing_ that you do not offer willingly."

Stiles' lungs expand, his heart steadies, and his soul unconstricts, billows out with something warm and sticky-sweet, a stream of utterly astounded relief.

Peter asks, "Do you trust me?"

And Stiles almost laughs, says, rain-lilting soft, "Yes. _Yes_ , I do."

With his life, his mind, his soul, his body, his _consent_.

"May I touch you?"

Stiles sniffs, unsteady, but nods again, wades closer, breathes deeply and consciously relaxes himself when Peter pulls him tight against him, before settling Stiles in a vaguely contorted lying down position, with his knees scrunched up and his head relatively in Peter's lap so the man can finish with his hair, rinsing out the shampoo and being far less... _suggestive_.

Stiles feels at once like a doll, a child, and a treasure to be coveted. It's a peculiar, unique, mildly terrifying feeling.

When they're done, Peter dries him, then himself, dresses him in his clothes, and tugs him over to the couch to blow dry his unkempt, too-long hair; it's grown almost to his shoulders, now, and the parts of him that want to cut it seem to flock away, perturbed, at the way he feels whenever Peter touches it, threads his fingers through in an almost playfully soothing manner as the blowdryer whirrs, whimsical heat eking out the water, making it all fluffy-soft.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Hmm, well. Tomorrow we'll go."

He jumps, only avoids cracking his head on the blowdryer because Peter reflexively pulls it back quickly enough. Stiles twists around to look at him, something effervescent and clinquant in his veins. _"Really?"_

Ice shimmers, radiant and amused, "Yes, sweetheart, really."

"Fuck," Stiles exhales, heavy and dripping gratitude, relief, _"fuck."_

"My, I do wonder what god presides over that word for you to say it like _that."_

Stiles swats him, then hugs him, then nuzzles into the side of his neck because he damn well knows what scenting is and because he's pretty sure it affects him almost as much as it does Peter, to drink in the scent of mountains and ozone, of impending rain on mossy air, to soak up the wonder that is feeling whole and hale and safe against a muscular chest, enveloped in gentling, soothing arms. He's human, so it's not the _same_ , but it's sure as hell _nice_.

"Shut up. Thank you, Alpha."

"I told you, baby: anything you want."

Stiles hesitates, then peers up at him, "Anything?"

Peter raises an eyebrow, but his vow is no less solemn, his arms tightening slightly, "Anything."

"Can we... before we leave, there's..."

"Stiles," Peter's hand smooths down his flank, while the other cups his cheek, and pain he hadn't even realized had begun throbbing within him again is steadily leeched away. "What is it?"

Stiles swallows, hard. "I know where Gerard is."

Peter inhales sharply, irises billowing into a terrible, ravenous, dangerous scarlet.

It's a whisper, shadowy, breathy, and absolutely determined, "I want him dead."

Peter grins, all sharpened teeth and righteous rage, "That, my beautiful, gorgeous boy, is an easy wish to grant."

For a moment, all Stiles can think is _Avenging Angel_.

And, really, it kind of fits, doesn't it?

* * *

It's so much easier than Stiles thought it would be, to come in claiming to be a student volunteer, dose a glib Gerard with ketamine, and roll him directly out of there, into the trunk of an awaiting car.

Really, the hardest part is telling Peter that he wants to do it.

"I can't... I don't think I'll be able to _kill_ him, but this—. It just makes more sense if I do it."

"You're severely underestimating me if you think smuggling an incontinent old man is above my capabilities, Stiles."

"You're severely underestimating _me_ if you think it's above _mine."_

Azure eyes narrow, penetrate, pierce, trace scars hidden beneath flimsy layers of cloth. "I have no doubt you can do this, darling. I just... don't like the idea of you alone with him."

Claws click irritably, and Stiles' cheeks bloom roses, the tips of his ears all candied cherry burn. Almost helplessly, he asks, "Why?"

"You're _Pack,"_ Peter growls, like that explains everything.

Stiles tries not to crumble under the words he says next, the sheer, insufferable weight of them. "I need closure."

Peter's attention gets razor-sharp, guileless, _intense_ , as he prowls forward, winds a hand behind Stiles to splay it against the small of his back, everything about him screams _predator_ , and something very, very small within Stiles that would, normally, shriek and wail, desperate to flee or panic or— _purrs_ , goes soft and docile and yielding.

"How many of these," Peter inquires, utterly serene, "did he give you?"

Stiles exhales slowly on the edge of a bone-deep shiver, tilts forward until they're nearly flush, until his lips are ghosting over Peter's ear, and he honestly can't tell if the adrenaline surging within his veins is anxiety or exhilaration. He doesn't think he actually cares.

His voice is still tremulous when he answers, "Too fucking many."

Peter rumbles something resounding, heatedly protective, as alluring-smoke as it is ricochet-threat, deep and dark within his chest, and Stiles caresses a shaky kiss against his cheek, gratitude and despairing hope coating his tongue like cinnamon.

He's sure, when Peter walks out of the warehouse they'd fought the kanima in- the sun already beginning to dance its' blinding way into the clear sky- drenched in sanguine-sloppy thick-rich liquid after nearly twelve hours, that Gerard died _slow_.

He hopes, a strange burst of vindictive pleasure exploding within him, settling like a tranquilizer against his jittery nerves, that it was _agonizing_.

Peter slips gracefully into the driver's seat of their nondescript rental car, and Stiles side-tackles him into a hug, burying his face in the crook of his Alpha's neck, aware and uncaring of the sticky blood he's getting all over his clothes in the process.

"It's good to see you, too, sweetheart," Peter purrs, sounding amused.

Stiles shudders a little, _breathes_ , says, "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"As you wish."

"If that's a Princess Bride reference, I'm gonna lace your tea with fucking _poison_ , Alpha."

"Is that meant to scare me?"

Stiles whacks him upside the head a little and releases him from the mildly awkward embrace (it is a _struggle_ to hug inside of a car). "Shut up and drive, you dick."

"Well, if _that's_ how you're going to be—" Stiles kisses him.

It's as impulsive as it isn't.

He's wanted to for months.

His lips are... _warm_.

Stiles _craves_.

He pulls away, biting his bottom lip and tracing the line of Peter's with the pad of his thumb. He looks up through his eyelashes, tilts his head enough that his throat is just slightly bared.

"Drive?" His voice goes gentle-high, coy, and Peter's eyebrows raise but he's _grinning_ , all puckish, imp-like rogue, eyes positively sparkling.

"Oh, baby, what on earth am I going to do with you?"

Stiles tries not to feel too smug when the immediate answer to the rhetorical question is to start the car and, wonderfully, _drive_.

* * *

Stiles starts having nightmares.

Insane, terrifying, _ridiculous_ nightmares, they peek into waking moments, creep up on him dressed up like hallucinations and flaunting themselves like they're trying to _seduce_ him.

He goes into a convenience store with Peter's credit card, buys more red bulls than his pitiful heart can probably survive, a burner phone, and, on a whim, a little tube of shitty eye-liner.

With the phone, he texts the Pack, all of them, that he and Peter are safe, that they're _Pack_ , that he couldn't have survived if he'd stayed in Beacon Hills any longer.

Scott calls him.

He answers.

He says, "I love you, brother, but I think he was my Alpha the moment I met him, and trust me, _trust me_ , I know _exactly_ how fucked up that is."

"... Okay." A breath, deep and steadying, a tin-foil crackle through cheap-awful speakers. "Okay, Stiles. I'm... I wish you could've stayed, I'm gonna miss you, bro."

"God, I'm gonna fucking miss you, too."

"But you couldn't stay?"

"No."

"Okay. Um. I probably shouldn't say thank you for the parting gift, because it was kind of... _not good_ , but, uh, Boyd and Erica, kind of. Told me. Things. And, y'know, Allison was actually. Happy? So."

Stiles barely suppresses a cackle, "You're welcome."

"Erica wants you to know she's taking good care of Roscoe, Derek says that you and Peter can come hang out whenever you want—or, well, not in so many words, but that's pretty much what he said... I _think_ , I'm not as good at reading his eyebrows as you-" Stiles snorts, and Scott's smile is audible when he continues- "Just. Don't die, call whenever you can, and... I don't understand, but I love you."

"I love you, too," Stiles murmurs, ends the call, looks at himself in a mirror surrounded by some of the deepest, and some of the most inspiringly shit-post graffiti tags ever to exist. He takes out the eyeliner and makes his eyes _different_ , surrounds gingersnap with charcoal, makes the honeycomb wells of his irises look cavernous, quicksand, something to suck you in and never fucking let go.

The text he sends his father reads, _I don't have Mama's eyes. Maybe I never did._

He stops himself from asking, _why?_ and _why did you stop if you were only going to break down and start it all over again, only **worse** this time?_ and _did you ever even fucking love me at all?_ It takes more effort than he'd care to admit, especially when he feels so distant, exhausted, _cold_.

There's a Thing, an oil-paint silhouette that smells like smoke and char, that whispers in an eery voice, reaches toward him from where it's slouched in on itself in the corner, promises oblivion and peace and answers, croons, _dear, sweet childling. Ask, ask your questions, you will feel **so** much better when you **know** he's never loved you, then you can sleep, hm? I will hold you, we will hold you, Grandmother Death will—_

... It's harder than he'd like, making himself ignore It.

He gets back in the car, and Peter side-eyes him as he downs another redbull even though he's been awake for four days straight and they both know he needs to sleep. He doesn't say a damn thing, though, and Stiles kisses him on the cheek.

Whether it's to spite him or to thank him, fuck all knows.

* * *

They bathe together, they sleep on the same bed- limbs all wound around each other, whenever they actually decide to get a motel instead of taking turns driving- and expressing physical affection- hugging, cuddling, scenting, kissing, hands lacing- is as natural and needed as breathing, for them. Intimacy and a deep-seated fondness colors everything they do, feeds into their packbond, breathes a new kind of life into their relationship, makes everything seem more _important_.

Making Peter upset becomes almost physically painful, and the idea of being without him shoots an unnerving chill through his spine, where praise and touch, simple moments mingled with complicity, are all cherished, wanted, urged into being.

Peter tells Stiles about being the Left Hand, when his sister was Alpha, being abandoned, when his niece was, and being vaguely proud of Derek for killing him when all was said and done, which is its' own level of fucked up, but also... kinda fair? Like, it's such a _Peter_ thing to do, and a brief stint with death was apparently just what his wolf needed in order to get knocked loose from its' feral state, besides.

Stiles is discovering, though, that the weird Guilt Thing is probably a Hale inherited trait, because for all that Peter hides it almost disturbingly well, he still _has_ it, a complex a mile wide, all braided into the ptsd he likes to ignore and the god complex he doesn't even _try_ to hide.

Stiles tells Peter things about his father he's never told _anyone_ , and then has to basically sprawl on top of a pissed off, growling werewolf, to keep him from just full on _running_ back to Beacon Hills to tear its' sheriff into tiny little unrecognizable shreds.

"You _drowned_ for that man, Stiles," Peter begins, a gravel-in-the-woodchipper kind of growl sewn into his low, vividly violent tone.

"Yes," Stiles agrees, then, quieter, "I didn't want to lose him, I still don't."

 _"Why?"_ it's a hiss, furious, ferine.

Stiles shrugs, goes dead-weight so his body feels heavier on top of Peter, doesn't actually answer, doesn't think he could if he wanted to.

It takes a long, long while before Peter's tense muscles ease, Beta-shift melting back to human, claws trading for blunt fingernails as the 'weres hands smooth up and down Stiles' back, as Peter finally _breathes_ again, calm (or as calm as someone like Peter ever _can_ be).

"Alright, my darling, alright." A harsh, settling, decisive exhale. "As you wish. Until the very fucking _second_ you don't wish it."

"Thank you," Stiles murmurs, lifting up from where he's curled on Peter's chest to kiss him, small and chaste and sweet, a nip and a kitten lick and a soft, half reverent sigh, before he presses his forehead against Peter's, hands coming up to cup his cheeks. _"Thank you."_

"I'm not nearly arrogant enough to presume I'm the first to tell you this, but you _make no sense."_

"Mmm," Stiles hums, a dizzy amusement swirling within him even as he flops back down, face hidden in the crook of his Alpha's neck, utter exhaustion catching up with him, dragging him into some kind of oblivion.

Monsters make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, praise him and insult him and hook their talons into his soul, tugging him further, further.

A legion, an abyss, a _nightmare_.

Distantly, he thinks he hears Peter begin to string together some discordant lullaby.

It might be one of the loveliest things he's ever heard.


	3. ...Is Right Twice A Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: The Nogitsune, as Horrible, No Good, Very Bad, Invasive Thoughts

Stiles has started speaking in riddles and quotes, he wakes up screaming, most nights he tries to avoid sleeping at all, and something sharp, uncomfortable, has seeped into his scent, spoiled cream and strawberries struggling to remain ripe against a harsh, blizzardous kind of cold, all the sweet steeped in a bitter tang. Their bond twists, sings unhappily, wantingly, and Peter begins to wonder if this is as simple as the after-effects of a ritualistic sacrifice, or if it's something else altogether.

His Beta's eyes are overbright, hyper and manic when he whispers, " '... A route obscure and lonely, haunted by ill angels only,' " and climbs out of the car, snatching his bag from the trunk and barely waiting for Peter to follow before trudging through a forest that does, in fact, lead where they're going, so long as they remain moving relatively northward.

"Fancied a hike, did you, baby?"

Stiles looks over his shoulder at him absently, the shock of kohl shrouded eyes a bit too glassy for Peter's liking, "It's perceived, organically achieved, but tongues can twist it, reshape it, because we can only ever _assume_ that we _know_ it."

"Truth?" Peter guesses, and Stiles smiles, his expression melting into something pleased, less hazy, more _real_ , for all the sugar-soaked sorrow sewn into it, as he reaches back to wind his fingers through Peter's.

Peter sighs, worried and frustrated, decides to be viciously glad that they're trekking through a forest that'll have _prey animals_ within it, because, at least, he'll have something to take his impotent rage out on, if only for the moment.

* * *

Peter holds Stiles through the night, tightens his grip when the boy begins thrashing, _screaming_ , like someone is brutally, horrifically, pathologically flaying every last atom of life forcibly from his body, and it's harrowing, but he settles, eventually, goes from heartwrenching, soul-searing wails to hushed, quiet, miserable weeping.

He'd only slept for two hours.

It's been nearly a week.

Peter sweeps silken, oaky hair away from blazing eyes, knuckles at tears as he bends in to kiss away the pained, helpless grimace, licking inside to taste all that desperate, chaotic brine. Stiles gives in with a ragged, broken sigh, his body losing its' rigidity, going supple and submissive under his.

When he pulls away, Stiles' lips are bruised a delightful raspberry-tart color, his cheeks flushed, tear-soaked, watery eyes red-rimmed, face a crumpled mess.

"Tell me I'm," he hiccups, strangles down a sob, "tell me I'm not crazy."

... He _would_ , except, "I would never lie to you, sweetheart."

And there's a very good chance, sleep deprivation aside, that he's been crazy all along, anyway. There's a thin line, and Peter's pretty sure his debilitating loyalty has been on the wrong side of _insane_ since the beginning, but that's another matter entirely, isn't it?

Stiles' bottom lip wobbles. It's horrendously adorable, and Peter's quite sure, if he could, he'd strangle the nightmares that plague him with his bare hands; as it is, he doesn't think there will be any deer left in these woods by the time they're done with them.

" 'All stories are lies. But good stories are lies made from light and fire. And they lift our hearts out of the dust, and out of the grave.' "

Peter raises an eyebrow at him, and tries not to find amusement in the way the boy very clearly _pouts_. Nearly nothing about this should be amusing.

Nearly.

"I'm not the type to tell bedtime stories to make you feel better, darling," Peter murmurs honestly, slides his lips over dew-damp eyelashes, kisses sorrow-stained cheeks, feeds the taste of all the lemon-rind melancholy to Stiles until he mewls, writhes, until he looks more wind-blown lust-addled than young and terrified and sad. "But I will tell you this: no matter what darkness or madness you carry in your soul, you are still important, you're still beautiful, you're still _Stiles_ , and you're still _mine."_

Wide, wide ginger-honey eyes stare up at him, deep-wells of _fragile_ , the vulnerability so open, trusting, that Peter's nearly floored by it, is most certainly swept up in it.

"Besides," Peter continues, vaguely breathless, light, on the edge of a sharp-edged smile, "I quite like your riddles."

A laugh gurgles, startled and water-logged, out of him, a tiny, tinny little thing that suddenly becomes a bursting, sunlight tinged, explosion of shattered sound.

"Fuck you," the boy giggles, but his arms are curling up Peter's back, his hands digging into the back of his shoulders, and the rest is muffled into the crook of his neck, "fuck off, you asshole."

"I prefer _Alpha_ asshole, thank you," Peter sniffs primly, and Stiles huffs out something between a chuckle and an exasperated groan.

"Oh my _god_ , no."

* * *

Stiles strips out of his clothes when they get to a small waterfall that pools into a deep, clear lake at the bottom. He stands at the edge of a ragged, jutting-out stone, naked and contemplative.

He takes three steps back, bare feet making grainy sounds against the mossy, gravelly rock, his scent all swathed in starlight, dripping with the flowery oils in it, the vanilla ice cream melting under some strained sort of heat, though the strawberries are more soggy than anything. Peter doesn't bother protesting when Stiles starts tugging and maneuvering him out of his clothes, just presses close and breathes deeply, this is the best his packmate has smelled in a while, and his wolf purrs, preens, at the way the scent gets richer, cleaner, sweeter, when it's mingled with his own.

The boy wraps his hands around Peter's wrists and pulls him closer to the edge of the plateau, pure mischief burnt into the amberine honey of his sultry, smokey, ink-lined eyes.

"What is easy to get into," the boy breathes with the promise of a wonder-filled smile courting his crushed-pastel lips, "but hard to get out of?"

"Trouble," Peter answers, almost without thinking, before eying the water down below trepidatiously, because it's pretty obvious what Stiles wants to do, and everything about this idea reeks _reckless, ridiculous,_ and _I'd really rather not._

"Are you afraid?" Stiles wonders, curious, soft, "all it is is a fall."

Peter glares, because he resents the insinuation, and the amusement flickering through that dry tone. "Are _you?"_

Stiles goes very, very still, squeezes Peter's hand, and carefully doesn't look at him.

"Always," he breathes; then, "I think... I've maybe been falling for awhile?"

"Have you?" Peter asks, quiet, concern mingled with a need to guard and keep, he pulls their bond closer, wraps it around his heart and lets his eyes bleed red. If this were anyone else, he would feel nothing, might've even pushed them off the cliff by now in a fit of impulsivity fueled by boredom, but this is _Stiles_.

This is the clever, clever boy who is too brave and too loyal and too _kind_ for his own good. This is his Beta, his _Pack_ , not by blood or mistake or chance, but by _choice._

This is someone he wouldn't even hesitate to admit he loves, trusts, and those two things have always been harder for him to achieve than most.

Maybe that's why, when Stiles takes a very deep breath, as if to steel himself, and prays, "Fall with me?" Peter acquiesces, easy and anything but simple.

There's an exhilarating rush, a soaring wind teasing their bodies as they both take as many steps back as seems appropriate before rushing forward, hands still locked together, and _jumping_ , a crest of transcendent motion, a whip of raucous air, and a tangled, giddy kind of yelping laugh erupting from Stiles' throat.

It doesn't feel like falling at all, Peter thinks, a refreshing bite of cold sinking into his always, _always_ too hot skin. It feels like _flying_.

The water is _freezing_ , and there's a suspended moment, where they're both encapsulated, lungs empty and wanting, every ounce of them all pin-prick shock from the hit, the dive, their fingers are straining to stay curled around each other, and everything seems to stop. An infinite second, lost in time, in sensation.

His wolf roars.

Their bond sings.

His feet find seaweed stones and, sharply, he buoys himself up, catches his breath and pants out a thousand colorful curses. Stiles laughs at him.

It feels _good_.

The lake water, mystifyingly, tastes like _freedom._

"I am crimson, a part of your body, but not lips, that which may kiss, instead I'm a type of liquid, very much required to live, wine-rich and mud-thick," Stiles gasps, even as he shivers, using their connected hands to wade closer, bringing their bodies flush, chest to chest, free arm anchored around the back of Peter's shoulders, legs wound clingingly around his hips. "What am I?"

Honeycomb eyes sparkle with mirth and a peculiar kind of clarity, their noses bump, brush, as Stiles pecks a kiss, and another, and another, playful, restless, eyelashes fluttering.

 _"Blood,"_ Peter answers, growls, into the boy's mouth, before he bites, slides his tongue into a warm, receptive mouth, as he pulls Stiles impossibly closer, relishes the whimpering keen that escapes him, the tremors that have nothing at all to do with how chilled the water is, the supple give of a body that finally has a relatively healthy amount of meat on its' fucking bones.

Stiles bucks against him, when one of his hands ends up in the boy's hair, his dick twitching to hardness against the firmness of Peter's stomach. "Take, baby," he purrs, as Stiles almost involuntarily grinds against him, gasping and whining, their foreheads pressed harshly together, damp-warm breath mingling. "Take what you need."

Stiles shivers, ducks down to recapture Peter's mouth in another, half desperate, searing kiss. He's flushed and a little clumsy, needy, but there's no fear, no upset in his scent, when he slinks a hand between them, hanging onto Peter like a limpet, and grasping their cocks together with long, delicate fingers. He hisses at the press, the carnal heat of it, the languid, excruciatingly slow friction, growls when Stiles' finger catches at foreskin, slick and curious.

"Warm," Stiles murmurs, husky and profoundly wanting, "so _warm."_

Stiles' hand works them faster, rougher, and the noises raked out of him are nothing short of pornographic, as he squirms, writhes, fucks up into his hold, a brand of twitching heat gliding across Peter's cock, his gut clenching at the feeling, a frustrated ache burning low and boiling him inside out with a surprisingly intense urgency.

"Please," Stiles begs on the edge of a needy cry, and that's all Peter needs to gather him closer, slipping his hand around Stiles', squeezing them at the base, and Stiles moans, long and broken, doubles down to dig his teeth into the side of Peter's neck, soothing the sting with a sucking kiss, a laving tongue.

Peter's grip binds them together, thrusts, steady and nimble, the angle just shy of awkward, but it doesn't matter, because he twists his wrist at just the right moment, tugging bittersweet chocolate curls as Stiles' thumb brushes his sensitive slit, and the boy convulses, comes with an airy mewl before latching, tremulously, onto Peter's pulse-point. The pleasure-pain of teeth gnawing at his neck, of the boy in his arms jerking, whimpering, oversensitized, as Peter continues to stroke their cocks together is enough to push him over the edge, his release coming with a groan that pitches into a base, animalistic howl.

Continuing to tread water after being so thoroughly spent is difficult, to say the least, so he swims them over to the bank, thankful for the simmering heat of a sun hell-bent on defying the season, despite the way his mind wants to retreat back to fire and smoke, and starch-wool blankets, the infuriating sounds of stagnant, monotonous machinery for it.

Stiles refuses to let go of him, despite how he seems limp and exhausted in a content, sated way, so he lays them down accordingly.

Later, they will find bugs trying to make homes of their abandoned clothes, and Stiles will smile dopily, will link their arms together and lean his head on Peter's shoulder, and say, adorned with affection, and, as always, just a bit ridiculous, "Onward, Alpha."

"Oh, my, really? I was so set on the idea of chopping down trees to build a cabin and live here forever," Peter sighs dramatically, "I suppose my dreams must be crushed, if you're so dead-set on leaving. However shall I cope?"

"Reluctantly and brilliantly," Stiles guesses, his voice pitching earnest before it dissolves into giggles.

* * *

Stiles chews on his straw as he stares out of the window, his mind's as hazy as it isn't right now, and he doesn't know yet if today's going to be a good day or a bad one.

He's starting to think that ice bath was more fucking trouble than it was worth, sure, he saved a man that... that, if his boyfriend (and they are boyfriends now, aren't they? They're _something_ , at least... Right?) ever gets his hands on him, will be dead, anyway, and in return, he's what? Going mad?

Stiles feels desperately young when he asks, before insecurity and shame-hot cheeks can spiral into lung-clenching anxiety, debilitating panic, "What are we?"

"Pack," Peter answers immediately, transferring a handful of his fries to Stiles' plate because he still thinks Stiles is too thin and he can be surprisingly mother-hennish at times.

"And the kissing thing?" Stiles presses, forcing himself to set down his milkshake so he can distract himself from his tripping heart by focusing on dipping two fries in it and devouring them, sweet and salty, a frozen, mini-ice crunch combined with a crispy one, cold and warm contrasting. It's nice, good—is it weird to say it satisfies his teeth? Or, maybe, it's more that it satisfies his oral fixation? Nevermind. "The fucking thing?" Stiles continues, vaguely entertaining the idea of trying to give Peter a blow job.

"What would you like it to be, darling?" Peter asks, and for a solid four seconds, Stiles kind of hates him.

Peter's been kind and sweet and dangerous and terrifying in equal turns throughout this whole thing, and maybe that's to be expected, but he keeps doing this thing. This too compassionate thing. It's more empathy than it is pity, and more indifference than it is anything else, probably, and as nice as it is that when Stiles needs to stop, they _do_ , right a-fucking-way, and fucking cuddle and shit, as nice as it is that Peter's being, generally, everything he needs whenever he needs it, there's something...

He just _needs_.

He doesn't know why and it doesn't make sense and he's frustrated to tears by it, but he _does_.

"Alpha," Stiles begins, then trails off, because what the hell's he even supposed to say?

The shadows in the Diner seem to coalesce, the people's chatter mingles with the voices in his head and creates a disturbing, chittering dissonance. He feels kind of sick. He pushes his plate away and tries to _breathe_.

Peter studies him, then, quietly, unexpectedly, _inevitably_ says, "I do love you, you know, and only you. I suspect I wouldn't be able to feel this way for anyone else, I never thought I'd be capable of this much, after the fire. I'll need more Betas, soon, to stabilize, and because having a bigger Pack is simply, strategically, _better_ , and perhaps I'll find it in myself to love them, as well, but never as I love you. You're the only one in this world I would die for, who, if I needed to, I'd give up all my power for. I want you happy and safe and alive—I'll admit, I want a great many other things, and I am not, nor will I ever be, without _plans_ , but you're... you take _precedence_ , above all things.

"I love you, and I trust you, and I want you—your body, your mind, your heart, maybe even your soul, if only metaphorically." Peter's taken Stiles' plate and rearranged it, disassembled his burger and cut it into a thousand tiny, much less overwhelming pieces, made sure there's at least three centimeters of space between that and the fries and the hashbrowns, transferred the scrambled bacon eggs to another plate entirely. He pushes the plate back into Stiles' space, now, looks up at him with eyes like fresh snowfall, delicately soft, cold enough to paint every part of you it touches cherry-red, sweet enough to make you turn your face up to the sky, tongue stretching out for the childish joy of catching fleeting snowflakes.

Stiles' heart is skipping, speeding, and he still can't breathe but it's not because he's freaking out anymore.

Okay, maybe he's still freaking out, but it's... it's a _good_ kind of freak out. It's a happy, bewildered, disgustingly besotted kind of freak out.

"What title, I wonder, would you give that?"

"Boyfriends," Stiles rasps, strangled and lame as all hell, but fuck it. "Normal people would call it boyfriends."

Peter raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but amusement twinkles like reflective sunlight in his goddamn gorgeous eyes. _"Normal_ people?"

Stiles launches himself across the table to kiss him silly, laments into his mouth, "Why? Why did I have to fall for such a fucking asshole?"

Peter hums, tugs at a lock of his hair just to make his knees go weak and smirk at the way Stiles stifles a moan for it.

"Have you ever considered the possibility that the universe just has it out for you?"

"That's a good theory," Stiles agrees, breathless, and climbs the rest of the way over the table so that he can sit in Peter's lap.

He only manages to stop when he realizes that if he keeps going he'll end up doing incredibly indecent things in front of a _crowd_ , and an exhibitionist he is _not_ , thank you.

The voices still cackle and clutter, the cadence of the shadows are still silky and oily and bilious, but he manages to eat at least half his food, and Peter, fondly, overindulgently, lets him stay cuddled up to his side the whole time.

* * *

He finds a bohemian kind of camper van on craigslist, and an underground sort of forum for supernatural creatures, gets an in in the community from Derek and Allison's new beau, Braeden, and that's a whole thing, because he's pretty sure Scott had been drooling over the triad of ridiculous manpower and beauty when he'd relayed the news, and all Stiles can think is that with the amount of guns, arrows, and claws between them, they must be the most _porcupine_ -y poly-tripling in the universe. Scott assures him it's much more adorable than all that, but Isaac agrees that the whole thing is terrifying.

Still, with Braeden's help, Stiles finds an unconventional job, because he wants that van but he wants to _earn_ it, he wants it to be his in the way _Roscoe_ was his.

Peter's re-packing their things when Stiles tells him, and the man looks torn between smiling and glaring.

"That thing is held together by rust, darling," he says disapprovingly.

"I know," Stiles sighs happily, and bounces up from their motel bed to smack a kiss on Peter's cheek before sweeping away with the ice bucket to get something to deal with his oral fixation issues.

* * *

He kills a nest of blood-thirsty harpies, and is kind of surprised by how _easy_ it is.

He knows he's had training, knows his aim is particularly good with a rifle, knows he's fucking _magic_ , and, more than that, cunning, but, still. Somehow he hadn't thought trapping them behind a wall of mountain ash and finding perches in trees to pick them off one by one would be so...

He's staring at the money he just got from the atm when it hits him that he should _really_ be feeling something other than relief that it went smoothly, and a wary sort of happiness that he has enough to buy his van after only one job.

He tells Peter as much when he gets back to their motel room and the man hauls him into a comforting hug, says, "You looked into them thoroughly, darling, because you wanted to know what you were getting yourself into, and because you were only willing to take on something that _wouldn't_ weigh on your conscious. You passed up three other jobs that payed more in order to heed your morals, but these monsters were _monsterous_ , and, even without the money as incentive, I highly doubt you would've let them continue unmitigated." He kisses Stiles' temple, "You did very well, sweetheart, it's okay to be happy about that, it's okay not to feel guilty about it."

Stiles hums a little, noncommittal, and Peter pulls away to knuckle under his chin, get Stiles to look at him.

"You're _good_ , baby," he promises, and Stiles almost believes him.

The voices in his head adamantly disagree.

They've been getting louder, these days.

* * *

Peter gazes at the mustard yellow, rusted, half-dead camper incredulously.

_"Wilbur?"_

"Yep."

"I... am not calling it that."

Stiles twirls the keys around his fingers delightedly and pulls Peter in for a deep, languid, near bruising kind of kiss, sighs, "Oh, you will," with all the knowing, sage wisdom a seer might, and stalks away to climb into the vehicle.

Not two weeks later, the car almost dies, and Stiles goes at it with duct-tape and love-magic and coos endearments for all he's worth. Peter finds himself whispering, "He adores you, idiot, don't let him down."

The car comes to life again.

Peter begins, begrudgingly, calling it Wilbur.

The smile Stiles offers him whenever he does is bright enough to put the fucking sun to shame.

* * *

Stiles peers at mount rushmore, snow crunching beneath his feet, dusting the heads of four presidents, and he suddenly feels like laughing.

It just seems really, really silly, after everything.

He and Peter slaughtered a coven of vampires last night, were still bloody and bruised and grimy when they got back to their motel and Peter fucked him against the wall, again, in the shower, murky water swirling down the drain. They did it more for fun than for money, and it _was_ fun, scaring the shit out of creatures who thought _babies_ were a delicacy.

Tomorrow they're going to assassinate a corrupt senator who also happens to be some sort of hellhound, and here's this mountain. Well crafted, sure, but also, just... _silly_ , far away and unimportant and strange, because it's so human and normal and inexplicably out of reach.

"Our lives are _weird,"_ he breathes, for lack of anything better.

"Yes," Peter agrees, "but so are we."

And Stiles bursts into hysterical laughter for a solid fifteen minutes.

* * *

"If we get there by christmas," Stiles tells him, them both cuddled up, naked and sweat-cool, comforters tangled around them, in the back of the van, "then there's something I want."

Peter traces the constellations of his moles as Stiles listens to the steady beating of his heart. "Anything, baby," he says, like he has a thousand times before, and Stiles smiles, soft and honest and _happy_.

"The Bite."

Peter stills, but only for the barest moment, "Are you sure?"

Shadows deepen, and a fox's laughter echoes in the back of his mind, delirious, power-drunk, _hungry_. It takes a lot more than he'd like to keep himself from shivering, to ignore the hitch in his breath and the panic trying to claw its' way up his spine.

He was sure when they left, and he's even surer, now, the only thing that scares him is the idea of getting worse while he has claws and fangs and hairy, full moon tendencies. He wants to hope that he's not deteriorating, that he'll be okay, but after a lifetime of anguish and disappointments, he's pretty fucking sure he won't.

He lifts up to look Peter in the eye, searching and wondering.

He thinks, if he becomes a deranged wolf, that Peter might follow him down, maybe they'd both go feral, or maybe they'd stay just sane enough to be lethally dangerous, maybe hunters would catch them, maybe not, but they'd certainly end up swathed in blood and madness by the end. Hell, they already are, aren't they?

Stiles murmurs, "Yes," and drowns the want of it with a kiss that's tender enough to make him want to cry. His throat is tight and his eyes are burning and Peter keeps it there, chaste and gentle and small until Stiles whines at him, begs with his tongue and his teeth and saltwater clinging to his eyelashes.

_[What if you die? die, die, DIE!]_

_[You know what we are, what we're going to do, what we've done with other faces, other bodies, it'll be so much worse if you give me **power** like this. He will help us, we'll make him help us, and when the world is dust, we'll crush his head under our heel.]_

_[Does he smell like your father? What does he think of your eyes? does he think you're beautiful like your mother? What would he think if you called him **daddy?** ]_

"Stiles?" Peter whispers, his name split three ways, deep and rumbled with a growl sewn in, solicitous, and vaguely awe-struck. Stiles fucking loves the way Peter says his name, and he's going to try _really_ hard to focus on that instead of... other things.

"Talk dirty to me," Stiles murmurs, and he's not even being ironic. He reaches for the lube and slathers Peter's dick in it before sliding down, hissing because, even though he's stretched out enough for it to be easy, his body's still shocked by it, clenching around the intrusion.

Peter huffs, hands clenched around Stiles' hips, breathes, husky and perfect and _terrible_ , "Już cię kocham tyle lat, na przemian w mroku i śpiewie," he thrusts, slow and intent, grinds luxuriously and deliciously against Stiles' prostate. Stiles moans, loud and desperate, tears tumbling down his cheeks to fall like rain on Peter's chest, in between Stiles' splayed hands, over his heart.

"Fuck you, are you kidding me?"

"Może to już jest osiem lat, a może dziewięć — nie wiem," Peter continues with a smirk, like he knows exactly what this is doing to him, his mother-tongue coated in a growl-mingled, sugar-grain, smoke-sex voice reciting fucking _poetry._ Stiles lifts his hips up, and then bucks them down, harsh and needy, cock already throbbing, pulsing with burning heat and an aching pleasure.

"When I said 'talk dirty to me'," Stiles pants, and keens helplessly when Peter holds his hips hard enough to bruise, fucks into him slow and sweet, a searing, unbearable rock that builds the heat in his belly until its' _volcanic_ , overwhelming and blistering, an itch he wants to scratch raw and bloody just for some _relief_ , "this isn't what I—fuck, fuck, please, Peter," he hunches down, shoulders curved in and head bowed. He's shaking and mewling and sobbing, and, for some reason, it feels kind of like an epiphany, a clean breath, an evisceration of poison.

"Splątało się, zmierzchło — gdzie ty, a gdzie ja," Peter whispers, adoring and lust-addled, and Stiles lets out a helpless, strained, water-logged laugh, "już nie wiem — i myślę w pół drogi," a broad, strong hand slides up his flank, tickle-light, and Stiles twitches, trembles, relishes in Peter's grunt, in the way he can feel his cock throb inside of him.

Stiles clenches against him, hitches his hips, makes it faster, messier, cries out between senseless pleas, "I'm close, so close, please, please, Alpha. _Please."_

Peter's fingers find the sensitive nub of his nipple, the ghost of touch sending a ripple of electric-pleasure through him, a spark that sets off the magma that's been building, has him catapulting over the edge, seized by ecstasy.

"Że tyś jest rewolta i klęska, i mgła," Peter rumbles, pants, fucking in deeper, harder, as Stiles convulses through the aftershocks, feeling tingly down to his toes, "a ja to twe rzęsy i loki."

The teardrops that had pooled on Peter's chest glide down when the man surges up to capture Stiles' mouth with his teeth, his tongue, mingle with the cum striping his belly, and Stiles honestly doesn't know if that's some kind of poetic, or just plain fucked up.

_[When is a door not a door?]_

"When is a door not a door?" Stiles rasps, shaky, and Peter pulls back just enough to look at him, afterglow swept away by something solemn, grim, slightly resigned.

Peter answers, because he always does.

"When it's a jar."

The shadows laugh, a joke that's hidden in the hollows of Stiles' bones, one he isn't in on, one he doesn't _want_ to be in on.

What he wants is to enjoy this and _be_ here and to be fucking _okay_.

He doesn't know if he's ever actually been okay. If he has, he doesn't remember what it was like.

"I love you," Stiles murmurs, choked, and trying on a tainted smile. It feels like all he has, like he's empty of everything else.

"I love you, too, sweetheart," Peter returns, pressing his lips to Stiles' eyelids, his tear-stained cheeks, his shoulders- and Stiles starts to smile, because how can he _not?_ \- the inside of his elbows, his wrists, his knuckles, and Stiles gives into a bubbling, fragile, misty laugh.

There's joy, here, with this mass-murdering Alpha werewolf who he loves desperately and vividly and _wholly_.

Gallows' joy, maybe, but _joy_.

* * *

Passing the border is annoying, but they get through, and then... go shopping, because they've basically been on a really lucrative cross-country, supernatural murder-spree for the past three and a half months, and it's going to be christmas in a week, and Stiles wants, among other things, to have an ugly sweater party, he doesn't even _care_.

He ends up buying Catch-22 and Fahrenheit 451 and ordering The Sandman series, because books and comics as christmas presents is basically tradition, and he has a feeling Peter will at least enjoy the sentiment, and, hopefully, the content. He also buys Wilbur a wreath, and a better mattress for the back, along with christmas lights and silky, emerald sheets, reindeer comforters, christmasy throw-pillows.

He hides the rest of his presents in a puzzle-box, that he wraps along with a vintage-style chess set, and tells Peter not to mess with until the actual day. The man may or may not raise an amused eyebrow, because they both know who has the patience issues between them, and it's not him. Stiles glares. Peter kisses him. And then Stiles shows him his sweater.

"No."

"Come _on."_

"Really, Stiles? _must_ I?"

"To keep it, it must be given, if it is kept, it will not be broken."

Peter sighs, takes the rudolph sweater, the deer stood on the front's neck flowing into a brown hood with antlers, making the person who's wearing it be its' face, and he's staring at the thing like it's the most disturbing thing he's ever seen, and this is the man who stood over a pile of putrid, rotting, wendigo corpses, looked at Stiles, a vivid, scarlet mess, only a little bruised, and called him beautiful. But, hey, let it never be said that Peter's _predictable._ Or that he makes sense. Or that he's entirely sane.

"I did say anything, didn't I?"

"You did."

"Well, then," Peter sniffs primly, pulls it on in one smooth, somehow _dignified_ motion, antler hood over his hair and all. Stiles tries not to laugh, and fails, choking on the sound behind his hand as he holds out a plastic, red, bauble nose for him.

Peter glares.

Stiles shrugs, biting back a wheezing guffaw. There are tears in his eyes, oh, god, but Peter looks ridiculous and utterly put-out and it's _delightful_. "To complete the look?" Stiles says, strangled, and Peter spears the thing on his claw, before ripping it into shredded, holly-red plastic confetti.

He clears his throat when he's done, recovers himself, and murmurs, politely, "No, thank you."

Stiles just gives in and cackles. By the time he comes up for air, Peter's pointedly holding out a sweater of his own. It's baggy, with a softly furred inner-lining, and it has deadpool kissing spiderman on it, with mistletoe hanging above them, a santa hat perched over deadpool's head, and the mercenary flipping off the world at large. It's so gorgeous and comfortable and appeals to every single aspect of his inner-fanboy that he laments as he takes it, mirthful tears still in his eyes, hoarse from all the laughter, "Oh-ho-aww, now I feel bad. This is amazing, thank you."

Peter's eyes sparkle, "You're welcome, my love, if only you could have given me the same regard."

Stiles sticks out his tongue, and Peter huffs, smiles at him with an exasperated fondness. Stiles is pretty sure his love for the man just doubled in size, and he hopes, when he wraps his arms around Peter's neck, saturates all that feeling in a kiss, that Peter feels it, tastes it, knows it with absolute certainty.

* * *

When they finally see them, misty lights all soaked in twilight, like crystallized sound, like a whale-song spun in wonderous color, Stiles trembles.

He doesn't cry, doesn't smell like brine or anything sour, if anything, his scent is clearer than it's ever been, melting, gooey vanilla ice cream, sugar-crusted, lush-ripe strawberries, hints of jasmine and lily layered in, bright and tart and blooming, and his hummingbird heart keeps steady, but he trembles, like the sight is a weight bearing down on him, or a weightlessness he's unaccustomed to. He trembles and he breathes and he holds Peter's hand like it's fragile.

Then he turns away from the sky, kohl lining his eyes, making the honey-soaked gingersnap in them look all the sharper, deeper, more profound. He exhales shakily, curls a hand behind Peter's neck and brings their foreheads together.

It'll still be Christmas Eve for four more minutes, but Peter knows what his Beta wants, and his wolf is already clawing it's way forward, needy, he's been too long with only one Beta, and a human at that; their bond is strong, but the Alpha-spark needs more, spikes out, corrupted and snarling without it, needs at least three fools' gold threads tied to his ribs in order to stay stable, would feel all the better if the people at the end of those leads were touched by his teeth. Not even mentioning how his wolf has wanted to claim Stiles ever since that night on the lacrosse field, his claws to the boy's jaw, so close to his throat, both of them covered in the blood of one Lydia Martin.

He'd been terrified, but the fire that lived in his eyes then burned brighter than the one that had stolen Peter's family from him, and, for all that it might've gotten him killed, he stood his ground, and kept right on talking, spilling out all his sarcastic clever between them as he told a psychotic, feral Alpha werewolf that they damn well weren't going to leave his jeep behind, either.

His mind was admirable, his soul was _beautiful_ , and here they are, now, Peter's Beta-shift sliding forward and Stiles tilting his head to the side to bear his throat, delicate and fragile and unwaveringly trusting.

Peter wonders how much of it is love, or regained sanity, or _Stiles_ , that has him asking, "Are you sure?" instead of just _taking_ , like he would, were it anyone else.

" 'As long as you keep getting born,' " Stiles whispers, a little dreamily, and Peter... actually doesn't know how much of him is _there_ , " 'it's alright to die sometimes.' "

Peter sighs, something heavy and tepid settling in his heart, because if Stiles truly _does_ die... he's not sure he'd make it back from that, he thinks what little is left of his soul would char, let itself become ash like the rest of him.

Stiles murmurs, almost soothingly, "I love you."

"And I, you," Peter returns, before letting his fangs drop, and Biting the junction of Stiles' shoulder, quick and vicious and concise, a silent prayer on his blood-soaked tongue.

_Please let him live._

* * *

Stiles lies, drowsy and feverish, in the back of the van. He's not bleeding or rejecting the bite, just overheating for no apparent reason, and clinging to Peter, anyway, despite the fact that the 'were is a veritable furnace.

"'S so _hot,"_ he grumbles uselessly, as Peter runs a clawed hand through his mess of curls.

"Yes, well. Everyone goes through the change... differently."

Stiles perks up immediately at the tone, peers at the man warily from where his head is resting on his chest, ear placed over his heart because it makes him feel better, and fuck everything, he's going to take that comfort.

"I'm not about to turn into a fucking lizard, am I?"

"My darling boy, if you do, I'll be the only one capable of taking advantage."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Yes," Peter says plainly, a little dry, and Stiles curses at him, because it _did_ make him feel better, and Peter knows it, and is also an asshole.

There's a sudden, sharp pain in his back, a wave of agony that makes him flinch and has Peter reflexively holding him closer with a vaguely concerned rumble, but it leaves as quickly as it comes, and as worrying as it was, he has to hope it was nothing in the realm of _dangerous_.

The weird pains come and go, but he's curled up half-naked on the man he loves, the van's sliding side door open, a thin, sheen curtain the only thing that separates them from snow and wind and a watercolor streaked twilight sky, his Bite seems to be healing, the voices are white-noise quiet, the shadows soft and inanimate, and sleep comes surprisingly easily.

When he wakes, he's mantled by fluffy chestnut colored wings, tips dipped in ivory all stippled with licorice starlight-speckles, and a sound that would've, under normal circumstances, been a squeak, comes out a choked chirrup-trill. Freaking out leads to a lot of flapping and a flurry of feathers and him stumbling out of the van and falling ass first in the freshly fallen snow.

He hears Peter cursing blearily, all sleep-mussed and confused, but he hears _everything else_ , too, the clicking and chittering of insects, the susurrus rustle of branches playing with the wind, the creak of Wilber under Peter as the man leans out from behind the curtain to see what on earth's going on.

There's a long, slow-blinking pause between them, Stiles' eyes very, very wide.

His wings flutter and shift behind him.

 _"Dude,"_ Stiles breathes, "what the fuck."

Peter seems to shake himself out of his momentary shock, climbs out of the van, a hint of amusement glittering in glacial-melt eyes. "Baby," he simpers, "I do believe you're an _angel."_

"Peter!" Stiles hisses furiously, three shades shy of hysterical, "I have wings! What the fuck, what the everloving _fuck."_ His wings raise and span out and flick, like they're trying to help prove his point, and Stiles glares at them over his shoulder because that's not actually helpful, goddamn it.

Peter sighs as he comes to a crouch in front of him, a little entertained, a little sympathetic, he reaches out a hand to brush at Stiles' feathers, his wing presses into the touch, and Stiles shivers at the sensation, which makes Peter smirk. "I've always thought you'd make a _gorgeous_ wolf, Stiles, but, perhaps, I was wrong, because you make an even prettier bird."

There's something low and approving, proud and loving, and _relieved_ in his Alpha's tone, which goes soft, sweet, happy and intimate, and _oh_.

Oh.

He's alive.

He'd forgotten that there was a possibility he might not've...

A breath, and Stiles wonders, "I want to show you my eyes, how do- how do I?"

Peter raises an eyebrow, "I'd've thought you'd want to learn how to retract these-" Peter tugs lightly on a feather and Stiles just barely stops himself from making a very indecent noise- "first."

Maybe. Maybe, if he didn't still live with the ghost of his grieving father's words, imprinted in every scar he'd left, tainting the muddy brown of his eyes, making them feel like a curse, like they were _faulty_. He needs them to be different, he wants them to be different, if there is, indeed, a spirit of christmas, this is his wish, desperate, chanting, begging:

_Change them. Change my eyes. Make them different._

Peter flashes Alpha-red eyes, and Stiles feels a twitching response in his own.

Peter grins, shark-like and murderously blissful.

"Of course."

"Of course, what?"

"Periwinkle," Peter tells him, "they're periwinkle, because you can do nothing by halves, can you?"

Stiles blushes, something small, prey-animal within him preening at the praise, his wings fluffing up against his will, and Peter's grin gets all warm-sweet, smaller, more tender, as he leans in for a kiss, before moving to help Stiles up, brushing the snow that hasn't already drenched him off with a small huff, and ushering him inside.

"Thank you," Stiles says, before they crawl back into Wilbur. He knows there are going to be things they'll need to figure out about the what and how of whatever he is, and he knows that, eventually, they'll have to find a place to settle down (he does still want to go to college, after all), and Peter will need to grow their Pack, but worries seem to have sloughed off of him for the moment, and all he can feel is this reverent sort of happiness. He kisses Peter, murmurs his gratitude into the man's mouth, along with a purring kind of, "I love you."

"I love you, too, little lark," Peter whispers. "Now, let's see what we can do about those wings before somebody sees them and decides to impale themselves on my claws trying to _do_ something about it."

"Aw, you say the sweetest things."

Peter rolls his eyes at him.

Stiles grins back.

(The voices seem to disappear, taking the shadows and the nightmares with them, which is both odd and wonderful.

They spend most of christmas researching, and the rest unwrapping their presents for each other.

After figuring out how to release his Beta-shift, they start looking into places to live, alongside colleges and the like. Scott, Erica, and Boyd become intermediaries between the two Hale Packs, and Stiles starts picking up strays that Peter can't refuse because he can't refuse _Stiles_. He falls in love with all of them eventually, besides.

One day, years from now, Noah Stilinski will be found with his eyes carved out, castrated and blind, but alive. The man loses himself to alcohol and bitterness, alone, because anyone who might've been loyal to him once were always loyal to _Stiles_ first, and while they may not know, a _feeling_ pervades.

Days after that, on christmas, when Peter finally gets back home, Stiles will drag him under a pile of friendly, happy, giggling bodies, their Pack unaware of what's happened, but gleeful for Stiles' glee.

An hour later, Peter will propose.

And Stiles, breathless, giddy, crying and laughing all at once, will say yes.

The silver of his ring the melted down scalpel that wrought his vengeance, because Peter is nothing if not sentimental in the most poetic sense.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering, this is a different take on the Nogitsune, because being away from the Nemeton Changed Things, and, also, the Bite did, essentially, fix him-- he's still got his regular, everyday traumas (which are terrible, and the author apologizes for hurting the precious bb), but the Nogitsune stuff is gone.
> 
> An unknown maid working for a crappy motel found a dead fly on a pillow in a tiny puddle of black goo, thought WTF for 3.5 seconds, and then cleaned it up and forgot about it entirely.
> 
> ///
> 
> "All stories are lies. But good stories are lies made from light and fire. And they lift our hearts out of the dust, and out of the grave."** Lucifer Comics
> 
> ///
> 
> "A route obscure and lonely, haunted by ill angels only,"** Edgar Allen Poe
> 
> ///
> 
> "Już cię kocham tyle lat  
> na przemian w mroku i śpiewie,  
> może to już jest osiem lat,  
> a może dziewięć — nie wiem;
> 
> splątało się, zmierzchło — gdzie ty, a gdzie ja,  
> już nie wiem — i myślę w pół drogi,  
> że tyś jest rewolta i klęska, i mgła,  
> a ja to twe rzęsy i loki."** [Konstanty Ildefons Gałczyński: Już kocham cię tyle lat](http://www.visegradliterature.net/works/pl/Ga%C5%82czy%C5%84ski%2C_Konstanty_Ildefons-1905/Ju%C5%BC_kocham_ci%C4%99_tyle_lat/en/58480-Years_I_Have_Loved_You)
> 
> ///
> 
> "As long as you keep getting born, it's alright to die sometimes."** Orson Scott Card
> 
> ///
> 
> Merry Christmas! I love you!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo!!!


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